


greyscale

by decidingdolan



Series: your words (my songs) [9]
Category: Sing Street (2016)
Genre: M/M, based on an instagram post by Ferdia, because actions voice words and concealed emotions - right?, romantic diner things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 05:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8044336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: breakfast at the diner. sunglasses, leather seats, and extreme proximity to one Walsh-Peelo.





	greyscale

**Author's Note:**

> again. this instagram was to blame: https://www.instagram.com/p/BKV0ei3g3Up/?taken-by=ferdiawalshpeelo
> 
> drafted during the Dubai - London, Heathrow, 7 hour flight.  
> the boys got me even on a transatlantic level, imagine that.
> 
> #WrittenEntirelyOniPhoneSE

 

 

 

> _Hold me,_
> 
> _in this wild, wild, world._
> 
> _Cause in your warmth I forget how cold it can be_
> 
> _And in your heat I feel how cold it can get._
> 
> \-- "Warmth," **Bastille** , Wild World (2016)

 

 

* * *

 

You're sitting in a diner, and not a very good one at that.

The red leather seating at the rounded booths screamed obnoxious. The menu was typical put-together sets. The atmosphere was mildly tolerable- there's few people inside (you could just about put up with a small army since the press junket started, but that's another story), chatters were minimal. Waitresses- a plain and mousy bunch- smiled, on occasion.

The sun's rays sneaked in through windows, forced you to put on the ridiculous(ly cool) sunglasses you nicked from some lad at school. Black shirt, tinted, angular sunglasses. Whoever thought of messing with you must be mad.

Ok, at least in your imagination.

 

But what was real and breathing, warm flesh and pinkish skin, also sitting next to you, was the owner of the thin, sunkissed arm.

Ferdia.

Yes, he was here, too. Signature Lennon Ray Bans, favorite white v-neck clinging to his frame, and wavy brunette locks let loose on his shoulders.

Your boy's a mini rockstar.

"You hungry?" he asked, finger scratching the side of his bottled water. You'd ordered the same. It was early morning, what had your appetite to say.

He was jittery, a bit. As per usual. Not a surprise with him. Ferdia's a ball of energy, and to see him still as he was, right next to you, was an anomaly.

You shook your head, brusque. "No," you waved a hand at the menu, placed flat on the table a few minutes ago by the redhead who introduced herself as "Betty." "You go ahead. There's uh...probably a deal or something...that you'll finish."

He clicked his tongue. "'s ok," his hand splayed flat on the table now, index tapping the surface. A rhythm. "I can wait."

 

You'd both snuck out, that was the story. Maybe the diner's not even that awful, maybe Betty had said a couple of nice words, maybe the kids at the table across the room weren't now making so much noise. Maybe it was your notoriously low tolerance for early hours.

"Breakfast, tomorrow, okay?" he whispered, breaths tickling your ear, and you couldn't resist the urge to curl further into your hotel, standard issued blanket. He squeezed your shoulder.

"Mhfff."

A chuckle. There's a thump, sounds of sheets rustling, and Ferdia was back in his bed by the time you rolled over to face him.

"Piece of shit," you muttered under your breath, before shifting back and letting your world turn to black.

Come morning (or wake-up o'clock, as you liked to call it), the alarm clock's persistent beats invaded your eardrums. Ferdia's finger was poking at your cheek, and you turned your head, shot him a look.

"Morning, sleepy head," he greeted, voice a melting toffee cake, and you groaned. From his stance next to the foot of your bed, his puppy eyes were in full force.

You raised an arm, covered up half your face. "Go away, Ferds," you mumbled, words more scrambled than you'd ever heard them. He was still in his pajamas, for God's sake. "Lemme sleep."

"It's our last morning together," he continued, pleading his case. His hand caught your arm, lowered it. onto the sheets. And you'd let him. "Come on." He's staring at you, as if the mere sight of him could lift you up from your bed.

Apparently, it could.

You half-sat up, back of hand rubbing at your eye. He'd sat down on the edge of your bed now, and you were kicking his thigh with your right foot.

"A'right," you nodded, arms flat on the sheets at your side and eyes square on his face. He barely flinched. "Give me ten."

He smiled then, a quick upturn of the lips, a victory flag for the stubborn boy who'd gotten his way. Ferdia slapped your leg (the one making beats with his thigh seconds ago) and bounced away from the bed.

"Ya got it," he sang, as he disappeared into the suite's bathroom. You breathed.

 

So yea, Ferdia. That's the reason you were at a diner during ungodly hours, seated and half in slumber, sunglasses concealing your drooping eyes.

If only they could see you now, those fangirls.

Ferdia's picture perfect, a magazine model transported straight into the real world. Clothes shone on him, hair never (if ever) out of place, and you'd gelled your hair for a couple of seconds in front of the mirror, thrown on whatever's at the top of the pile in your suitcase.

Someone like him, and you.

Imagine that.

 

"You sure? I'm just..." you said, finger pushing the menu to his side of the table. You shifted, tried to get the menu to him, and that was when your heart took a bungy jump leap.

His arm, snaking around you and firm on the diner's rounded seating. Taut, bony skin brushing against your back when you made the slightest move backwards.

Lean back, and he'd have his arm flung around your form.

Ownership.

The daredevil attempt struck up by people who'd initiated flirting, whilst uncertain of the target's response. The first move on the chess board, the signal for the hunter's treading the waters, testing the temperature.

A classic, by-the-book, wannabe boyfriend trick.

(Christ, did that _word_ just pop up in your head? Just popped up? Materialized. Just like that?)

 

He wanted this, you'd read it all in.

He wanted his arm draped around you, to hold you and have you seated near him, hell, next to him, sans personal space.

He wanted this, you knew full well.

He wanted this, and he'd planned it out.

_You sneaky child._

Asked for a booth for you two, no chairs, just rounded, red leather seating. You should've suspected.

He wanted this, and had you let him, not say a word, and lean back, you'd permitted him to move on in his game.

 

"...not awake?" he finished your sentence, hand reached over to pick up the menu. And your heart skidded, banged against the walls of your chest, and froze, seemingly all within a second.

Cause: the arm on the booth 'accidentally' wrapped around you, his chest brushing your back.

 

_McKenna, you coward._

_McKenna, you weak little shit._

 

 _Do_ something.

 

You sucked in a breath. "Yeah," you replied, "Doesn't take a classically trained musical prodigy to figure that out."

Thought you could see a smirk on his lips, if you squinted hard enough.

And you're humming _The Strokes_ , as you shifted closer to him. Your knees brushed, and you licked your lips.

 

"Better order," he said, hand picking up the menu. Felt his foot rubbing up and down your leg, and your nerves started going into a spin.

_Jesus, Ferdia._

"Before they kick us out or something."

There's no distance, between him and you. It's two bodies, two pairs of knees, humanly close as could be. Two gangly, white Irish boys, clustered together under a diner's booth sized for six.

Even _Betty_ could read what's happening.

"Right," you said, stretching your arms up. A yawn, an actual yawn escaped your lips.

_Good. Make it realistic. Don't try too hard, McKenna. He's the one flirting here, not you._

And you're leaning back against the leather as you continued stretching, all too aware of your doing and the permission you're granting him.

His arm came down the next second, pressure on your back. Warmth pressing on warmth, and Ferdia's squeezing his hold, an unspoken, "He is mine. _You are mine._ "

 

You heard him let out a satisfied sigh.

 

_The nerve._

 

Weaved your fingers into his, as you crossed over into his space, and attempted to calm the flush rising to your cheeks to no success.

He stared at you, caught your eyes. And it's been a while since you'd felt this way. Awkward but confident. Uncertain but ready. Lost but found. Powerless but in control. Hovering within ambiguity but with the clearest sense of direction in your head.

 

"So," he grinned, broke the silence, and his little head tilt in your direction was a simultaneous everything and nothing.

"Flapjacks?"

  

**Author's Note:**

> The usual:  
> These are complete FICTIONALIZED versions of Ferdia and Mark in my head. We've no idea how they actually are as persons. The interactions, the exchanges, the thoughts are all imagined and made up. Treat them as imaginary Ferdia and Mark, with their exact likenesses and mannerisms, interacting. For all we know, we know nothing.
> 
> Thank you so much for stopping by, reading, and reviewing!  
> x


End file.
